Death to the Cylons!
by L Zaza
Summary: Written for the BSG Club fanfiction writing contest. The challenge: Write an opening scene for the "new" BSG movie, based on the original series.


Death to the Cylons!

By Lisa Zaza

A fine mist blanketed the dark Piscon valley, offering an extra measure of cover as they neared the mountain base. If it hadn't been for the night-vision goggles, the going would have been far more treacherous. The mountain passes they'd traversed during twilight before finally reaching the valley had no doubt been the last resting place for many a man over the yahrens, if the several memorial cairns along the way were any indication.

Ahead of Apollo, dressed in black night fatigues, his face darkened by camouflage face paint and his light brown hair almost indistinguishable, Aten held up a fist. Second in the spread out line of men assigned to the unit, Colonel Apollo mimicked the motion for those behind, simultaneously squatting down and waiting silently. The fresh smell of pinus scented the cold air, the dampness chilling him to the bone. He fidgeted and let out a short breath, eager to move on. It had been a long journey back to the Colonies from Earth—even at light-speed—and it felt good to breathe in the fresh Colonial air despite the circumstances. He spared another glance at his chrono, checking their progress. Their advance scout was due back any centon. If everything went to plan, they'd be on the move again soon. Barring an extreme emergency, there would be no further use of communicators just in case the Cylons picked up the transmission.

He shifted, his leg muscles burning with fatigue. An eighteen-kilometron hike through the wilderness in the dark hadn't seemed so intimidating when it had first been discussed at the rebel base on Caprica. At one time it wouldn't have fazed him at all, but a lot of yahrens had passed since he'd been assigned to these kinds of field missions. Taking a sip of liquid nutrient, he glanced back over his shoulder. Boomer was there, just as he had been for the last twenty-five yahrens. A little greyer, a little heavier . . . much like Apollo, he realized. Neither man had been able to sit_ this _mission out. They both had insisted on being there. Lords of Kobol, they'd finally come full circle.

Almost.

Although it felt like centars, a few centons later the unit moved out again. Apollo had to admit he was impressed with their training, expertise and discipline, especially considering their youth as well as who their commanding officer was. Apollo smiled ruefully, reminding himself that the United Rebel Forces of the Colonies didn't actually follow the usual Colonial military rank structure. Rumour actually had it that they referred to their leader somewhat tongue-in-cheek as "the Anointed One", rather than by any military designation. Well, it didn't take much of an imagination to figure out who had come up with _that _one. It was classic.

Centons later they were brought to a stop again. _What the frack was it this time?_ He looked back, exchanging a brief look with Boomer as they squatted down to wait again. Boomer shook his head, quickly looking at his chrono. They were of like minds. They knew there was a deadline. If they didn't get inside the base in time to complete their mission before the air strike, this would all be pointless. A useless bloody waste of time, planning and energy.

Well, to _some_ extent anyway. But those reasons were purely selfish.

After all, the mission was twofold, he reminded himself. Team 'A' would plant the explosives near the fusion reactor that would blow this Cylon Base to Hades Hole. Team 'B' would rescue the rebel leader, providing there was anything left _to_rescue of him. It was clear from the beginning he'd be interrogated and then—when the Cylons had broken him—executed. He'd been captured almost a secton before, his ship intercepted on the way to the historical first meeting between Apollo's advance envoy from Earth, Commander Cain's forces and the United Rebel Forces. True to character, the rebel leader had intervened when he'd received a transmission that one of his patrols was in trouble. It had been rash, reckless, instinctive and so characteristic of a man who had never hesitated to sacrifice himself for another, always figuring he'd find some way out of the trouble that had typically followed him his entire life. Life on the edge, just the way he loved it.

It had been a blow to all of them, especially when the URF had insisted that any wide-scale participation on their part in any offensives wouldn't happen until they'd rescued their leader. They had every intention of recovering the Anointed One, a man who they claimed had miraculously appeared from a planet that was named for him in a far away star system. Against the odds, he had managed to pull together countless dispirited and disorganized groups of survivors post-Destruction, slowly and stubbornly organizing them into a resistance movement that was now—with the additional support of the Earth Fleet and Commander Cain's forces— poised to upset the balance and eradicate the Cylons from the Colonies.

Apollo held his breath as a faint familiar droning began to penetrate his heightened senses. It was a Cylon foot patrol that had stopped them in their tracks this time. He ground his teeth, caught between an instinctive desire to strike and the realization that this was no time to expose the task force. He only hoped that young Aten had the good sense to let the patrol pass by.

The centons passed by excruciatingly slowly. Lords, he felt like a shiny new cadet on his first patrol as his heart thudded against his chest, counting off one micron at a time. He checked his chrono again, wincing when he confirmed his worst suspicion. It was official; they had fallen behind schedule. None of them had expected the increased security, the frequent patrols. It was as if the Cylons somehow _knew_ they were there waiting to strike, which didn't make any sense. Either that or . . .

There was the signal again. Every sense attuned to the slightest noise, the faintest motion, he kept an eye peeled for any kind of intruder detection system as he shadowed Aten once again. By Earth standards, the Cylons still didn't put much stock in security measures, counting on their greater strength to overcome their enemy in the Colonies. To them, the rebel forces had been more of a nuisance than a real threat. And after two deca-yahrens of civil war testing the Cylon Alliance's resources, these isolated bases in the Colonies hadn't received much in the way of support from their Imperious Leader. Until now.

Intelligence reported that recently this base had buoyed its forces, adding at least three hundred Raiders and the associated centurions to its usual contingent of fighters and ground-attack vehicles. More were on the way. The Imperious Leader had at last dictated that it was time to quash the remaining human insurgents so the Cylons could focus entirely on internal matters. When Commander Cain had sent word to Earth that they needed reinforcements at home, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. The refugees settled, a whirlwind technological revolution achieved, the newly developed military might of Earth added to their own, they were ready to go back.

Soon they were at the outside hatch. Young Aten was already tapping into the entry panel, using the latest in "electronic felgercarb" to bypass the entry code. Apollo noted the determination and concentration in the young man's face—and the slight shake to his hands. Aten drew a deep breath, raking one hand through his hair before setting his jaw and continuing in his task. This was no time to allow a growing urgency to overcome their professionalism. One wrong move and the Cylons would know they were there, destroying any advantage they had.

Apollo took a step forward, taking a crucial micron to squeeze the young man's shoulder. Desperate blue eyes turned to regard him, the gaze flickering over him impatiently.

"Don't worry, we'll find him. Your father's a survivor. He'll be okay," Apollo told him. Then he smiled at the other. "Hey, he'll probably ask what took us so long, and then accuse us of forgetting his clean uniform."

The blue eyes dropped to the ground and the young man swallowed before meeting Apollo's eyes again. Then he squared his shoulders defiantly. "How'd you know, Colonel?" Aten asked.

"How could I not?" Apollo replied. "There's a definite resemblance. And your mannerisms . . . well, that cinched it."

"I know I should have told you, sir, but . . ."

"But you thought we'd insist on excluding you from the mission," Apollo concluded knowingly. The younger man nodded. "From what I've come to know about you, you're a lot like him. Honourable, loyal, determined. Which in my book means you're one Hades of a warrior." He paused as he felt a faint tremor beneath his feet. He looked back at Boomer. "Did you feel that?"

"A quake?" Boomer murmured. "This _is_ a seismic region."

"Maybe," Apollo replied, looking back to the young rebel. "Get us in there, Aten."

"Yes, sir."

Moments later, the entry panel lit up like a Yule display. Every warrior present pulled his weapon, preparing to do battle as Aten pulled open the hatch. A klaxon was blaring within, but the corridor was curiously empty.

"Where is everyone?" Boomer asked over the din.

"I, for one, am_ not _disappointed," Aten returned, stepping inside, his weapon fanning the area. "Could they have picked up the air strike?"

"I didn't see anything launching out there," Apollo replied as the rest of task force entered the base.

"When the sky fills up with four hundred Cylon Raiders, you generally don't need a scanner to notice," Boomer added wryly.

"Good point," Aten nodded. "What then?"

"I don't know," Apollo shook his head. "But we don't have time to dwell on it, Aten. Stay alert. You and your team set the charges, Boomer and I will find your father."

"Just the two of you?" the young man asked again sceptically.

They'd already been over this. "We'll be fine. Generally, it's a standard Cylon presumption that humans don't try to break _into_ a brig."

"Funny. My father's said the same thing, more than once."

"One of these days, I'll tell you about the Arcta mission and a certain young Cadet Cree."

"You mean the mission where Dad single-handedly saved the Fleet _and_ liberated a race of clones?" Aten grinned, pulling a fumarello out of his pocket.

"I wouldn't mind hearing that one, myself," Boomer said, smiling in amusement.

"Give this to him for me, Colonel," Aten asked Apollo, handing the smoke over. "These days he's more partial to fumarellos than clean uniforms."

"I will. Now let's move."

They took off at a jog, parting ways with the URF task force and heading towards the reported position of the brig. Sagan's sake, Apollo hoped the intelligence was correct. More than that he hoped fervently that the rebel leader was still alive. There had been more than one report that the Cylons had already executed him, but the legendary Commander Cain had insisted it was merely propaganda, meant to dispirit their forces. He'd worked closely with the URF leader during the past yahren and had the best insight into the political situation. Apollo forced down any uncertainty, trying not to allow his own emotions to interfere with the mission. It wasn't easy.

The day he had awakened in Life Station after battle to find out that they had lost his best friend for good had been one of the hardest in Apollo's life. And the fact that he had never even been given the opportunity to organize a search, to bring him home again—as was his responsibility—well, his guts still churned as a familiar guilt and endless recriminations suffused him. This was his final chance to make amends, to set things right. Boomer felt much the same.

"Apollo!" Boomer shouted.

They raised their weapons, firing at the Cylons that had suddenly turned a corner. At the same time, the ground shook again, and a distant explosion covered the sound of laser fire while the targeted centurions did the usual "Sparking Twitch" and then dropped to the floor in a smouldering heap.

"Did Cain start the air strike early?" Boomer shouted, the klaxon still screaming through the base.

"I can't believe he'd do that!" Apollo returned. While the Juggernaut had always liked to do things his own way, occasionally defying orders or attack plans, he'd never _purposely_ put men at risk. Although the fact that he'd headed back into the heart of the Cylon Empire after parting ways with the Fleet over a quarter centi-yahren before had never set particularly well with Apollo. The way that Cain told it, he'd been creating enough chaos to divert the Cylons' attention away from Earth as well as the Twelve Worlds. And, of course, there was every indication that he'd somehow contributed to the political unrest that precipitated the Cylon Civil War. The war had done the unthinkable and divided the Cylons, giving the Colonials, both here and on Earth, a chance to recover and then move forward.

"C'mon! The brig is just up ahead!" Boomer called.

They tore into the containment centre, at once surprised and relieved that there was no guard. Then again . . .

"Apollo, if there's no guard, then there's nothing _to_ guard," Boomer muttered in concern as he blasted open first one and then another cold cell. Neither of them missed the stains of rust-coloured fluid smeared on the inside of the walls of one unit. Old blood. A quick sweep of the area confirmed their worst nightmare. "We're too late. We're too goddamned late!" Boomer choked out.

An icy dose of reality lodged itself in Apollo's chest. "_Can't_ be . . ." he managed hoarsely, shaking his head in disbelief. So much time had passed and they'd come so far, all for nothing. He'd failed his old buddy once again. Just like Zac. And Serina. So many more . . . The knowledge was sickening in its finality and intensity. He locked eyes with Boomer, seeing a tortured grief reflected back at him.

Another explosion rocked the room, shaking Apollo from his torment as he almost toppled to the ground. The lights flickered above them. "Let's get the frack out of here, Boomer! This base is coming apart!"

They raced back out into the corridor, stumbling to an abrupt halt when they saw a phalanx of centurions, firing in the opposite direction. The Cylons had to have pinned down some of Aten's men. The two warriors dove for the cover of a hatchway and began firing, sandwiching the centurions between the two positions. Out of the corner of his eye, Apollo spotted something being flung amidst the Cylons. Instinctively, he knew what it was.

"Solenite charge!" he bellowed, diving to the floor and seeing Boomer do the same. An instant later, all Hades broke loose as a fiery blast filled the corridor. The whole world shook as smoke and debris flooded the air. Parts of the ceiling, light fixtures, and centurions rained down on them.

The silence that followed was deafening in its contrast. It took Apollo a long moment to realize that the klaxon had stopped. He coughed as he drew in a lungful of dust and smoke.

"You okay?" Boomer asked him, suddenly leaning over him.

"I'm going to kill Cain," Apollo muttered darkly, sitting up. Then he hesitated as he heard the clap of a single pair of boots echoing down the corridor. A lone figure began to emerge from the smoke.

Hefting a Cylon pulse rifle, he was covered in soot and debris from his boots to his grey-streaked hair. His face unshaven and thinner than before, the stub of a fumarello wedged firmly between his teeth, even with the passage of time Apollo recognized him in an instant. There was a brief moment of uncertainty when the other man startled, skidding to a stop and reflexively raising his weapon when he saw them. Then familiar blue eyes locked on them in utter shock and disbelief. His mouth gaped open and his fumarello dropped to the ground almost comically. His weapon dropped innocuously to his side.

"_Starbuck_ . . ." Apollo breathed, swallowing a large lump in his throat about the size of the _Galactica_. It took him right back to the time when his friend had miraculously reappeared on Kobol, after they'd given him up for dead. He let out a choked breath, taking a step forward. "We thought you were dead!"

"Hey, not _this_ old war jock," Starbuck replied after a moment, his infectious grin impossibly white against his filthy face. "You're a little late, by the way."

"About twenty-five yahrens late by my reckoning," Apollo returned with a smile, before meeting his old friend in a bone-crushing, back-slapping hug. Twenty-five yahrens of guilt and regret slipped away as he held the warrior at arm's length, reassuring himself that Starbuck was indeed whole. "Lords of Kobol, but it's good to see you."

"How in Hades Hole did you escape?" Boomer asked, slapping his old friend on the back before also pulling him in for a hearty hug. "For that matter, how did you get from that Godforsaken planet you landed on, back to the Colonies? We thought we'd lost you for good, buddy." He shook his head in wonder.

"What can I say, sometimes it's good to have friends in high places," Starbuck replied with a vague glance upward, before standing back and clapping Boomer on the shoulder. "It's a long story, better told over a passable ambrosa, and preferably when solenite charges aren't exploding all around us. Where's my unit?"

"Getting ready to blow the fusion reactor," Apollo told him, handing over Aten's fumarello. "From your son."

"That's my boy!" Starbuck grinned, biting the end off of it. "The fusion reactor, huh? Sounds like fun."

"You would think so," Boomer said wryly.

"And now that we know the klaxons were sounding because you'd escaped, Starbuck, not because they'd detected us," Apollo added, "there's still a good chance that we'll surprise them."

"A damn good chance. I blew up their Control Centre," Starbuck grinned.

"Regardless, our squadrons will be standing by. Anything that launches will be shot down before it clears the base," Boomer added.

"Well, thanks for the assist," Starbuck told them, pausing in reflective silence for a moment before he put out his hand.

"Been a long time," Apollo nodded, gripping his friend's hand.

"Too long," Boomer said. A moment later they were locked in a long overdue three-handed grip of friendship and camaraderie.

"This is it, buddy," Apollo said. "This is where it starts. The Cylons are still infighting, and since you were captured, three more _Unity_-class battlestars have arrived from Earth. For the first time in a quarter centi-yahren, we have the military might to retake the Twelve Worlds."

Starbuck nodded appreciatively. His voice—when it came—was hoarse with emotion. "You know, there were times that I thought I'd never live to see this day."

"There were times when _I_ never thought you'd live that long too," Boomer quipped, lightening the mood.

"I'll second that," Apollo smiled.

"So," Starbuck said, "what are we waiting for?"

"_You_, Starbuck. We were waiting for you."

"Well, here I am," he grinned, clamping the unlit fumarello between his teeth, "so let's get this party started. In the words of the legendary Commander Cain, death to the Cylons!"

"_Death to the Cylons_!"


End file.
